


Hunger

by wheatleyandrews



Series: Greendreams [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Crack, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 04:43:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheatleyandrews/pseuds/wheatleyandrews
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The king turns his head sideways against the soft pillows to shoot an eye through Jojen's striking green. "If you love your king, you do his bidding, Jojen," he whispers, smirking as he inches his hand down the silk. "What the king dreams, the Hand brings to life, and you know I dream about this most every night."</p><p>Bran's breath comes in sharp draws and shallow pants and moans of 'more' and 'please' and 'harder' and 'yes, yes, yes'. The young king sweats into the silk, his cock compact against his body as he's pressed down into the sheets and the strawhaired lord nips softly into his neck, sending chills down Bran's spine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hunger

Bran pants heavily in the midday light that seeps through the curtains, scattered red in the fine fabric. Spreadeagled naked across the regally-adorned bed of oak and silver, Bran swims calmly among the silk of the maroon bedsheets as Jojen runs his spindly fingers over the small of his back, one hand on the young king's pale buttock, cast pink in the dull light.

"Are you ready, my king?" Jojen whispers, his straw hair in mussy tangles and his face all ablush as he strokes his own erection. It had been a week traveling from Winterfell among the endless mob of kingsguard, assorted clergy and noblemen, with little privacy from the dozens of small folk all willing to kiss the feet of the king, thinking they might be able to fool him, having only seen seventeen of his name days. Brandon the Seer, they called him, King of the First Men and the Crannogmen, Warrior of the North and of the Neck, Divine Servant of the Gods of the Forest, Master of Winter… the slew of titles and honors from every variety of sleuthing groveler wore at both of them to no end.

Night after night the lovers were forced to limit their rendezvous to only a clandestine kiss beneath the stars, a peaceful stroll in the black of the night, a rushed and confusing brush of hands and cocks, sunk in the high moonlit grasses. But know, finally, Greywater Watch offers them a secluded retreat within the highest tower of the cold, stone palace, caught between the quiet hiss of the mire's mist and the incessant crash of the sea.

"Please, Jojen, fuck me." Bran blushes in the low light. Jojen chuckles and lays one hand among the silk, the other among the deep reddish brown locks that joined Tully with Stark, and laid near flush with the young king's back.

"They call you king of nearly everything," Jojen whispers, "but you and I both know this bed is the one place my king can never rule." The lord of the crannogmen slowly brushes through his lover's hair, reveling in his shiver. "And it makes you no less of a king to me, my beautiful Bran."

The king turns his head sideways against the soft pillows to shoot an eye through Jojen's striking green. "If you love your king, you do his bidding, Jojen," he whispers, smirking as he inches his hand down the silk. "What the king dreams, the Hand brings to life, and you know I dream about this most every night."

Jojen smiles and he can feel himself throb harder as Bran takes him in hand and aligns him to his opening. "Because I am there with you," Jojen shoots back as he thrusts softly into the boy he loves.

Bran's breath comes in sharp draws and shallow pants and moans of _more_ and _please_ and _harder_ and _yes, yes, yes_. The young king sweats into the silk, his cock compact against his body as he's pressed down into the sheets and the strawhaired lord nips softly into his neck, sending chills down Bran's spine.

Out of the blue, Jojen withdraws and rises to his knees on the ocean of silk. The boy king whimpers with notes of impatience. "You must fuck me," he says. "I command it."

"Then give me your sweet lips, Bran, and your muscles to clutch," Jojen protests, his voice stony with resolve that could easily snap like a twig underfoot if refused. "You forget that I need you too. You aren't just my cheap whore, you're my king and my love."

Bran chuckles as he rolls among the silk to rest on his back, and in a split second the marsh lord is smothering him once more, a fury of lips and fingers and cocks between the lean boys. "Show me the wolf inside you," Jojen whispers between caresses, and Bran claws the lank muscles of his back, trailing red marks over the pale freckled skin. 

"I love you," the boy king pants, murmurs of pleasure coloring his cracking voice, wet with the humid kiss. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

* * *

The servant's breath comes shallow as he races down the stone corridor, his feet urging forward faster than he thought he could manage, clack-clack-clacks echoing against the cold, indifferent rock. "My queen!" He sinks to one knee as he bursts through to Meera's bedchamber, sweating and panting before her like a stray dog just back from the hunt as she sits on the bed. The queen's sharp, mossy eyes are curious underneath her black curls. "I tried to find Lord Reed in his bedchamber, to deliver the message you sent for him, but when I arrived at the door I heard His Grace's voice spouting vile talk from beyond, pleading with Lord Reed to… well…"

The stony queen looks unsurprised. "To what, Bentry?" Her fingernails tick sequentially across the black, dusty wood of her nightstand.

"Excuse my language, your grace, but… to fuck him, my lady." The servant flicks his eyes to Meera's but receives only the blunt end of an unending glare.

She snorts and blushes. "I expected little else of those two. The message will..." she cocks her head, calculating a response, "have to wait until tomorrow." She raises a hand to cover her mouth, and in the fire's light the servant's pupils grow to huge black moons as his face turns bright fuchsia.

His voice drips with exasperated shock. "You _what_? Do you mean--"

Meera smirks and nods. "Every word that's racing through your head right now, Bentry. Yes, I mean all that." She uncrosses her legs and stands from the bed to tower over the servant. "What's it to you if your king hungers for the occasional cock? He's your king nonetheless. It shouldn't mean a thing to a smallfolk like yourself." She turns to the vanity behind her and picks up the longbow that sits atop it. "And if it does," she whispers to the servant, whose nose nearly brushes the tiles in penance, "We have ways of taking care of that." She pounds the end of the bow into the tile by the servant's ear and a soft whimper scurries out of him. "Now rise, Bentry."

The servant is silent but his scarlet cheeks burn hot as suns. "You will hurry yourself along to the larder, where you will find a skin of the finest Dornish summerwine for the two lords. You will leave it outside Lord Reed's bedchamber, and you will never breathe a word of any hushed panting you hear coming from beyond his or the king's doors." The queen chuckles. "He'll know who the wine is from. Now run along."

The queen laughs more heartily once the servant, still blushed in shock, has been long on his way. With her thumb she breaks the teal wax seal of the unsent message and lets it drop into the heart of the hearth's fire. The brown, iron words sail away in curls of grey smoke. _Dear brother, you must tend to your wolf's hunger for you if I am to be with child anytime soon._


End file.
